


ten feet away but i hit the moon

by scrapbullet



Category: Blade (Movie Series), Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-16
Updated: 2010-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-24 01:56:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vampires. Vampires. If you'd told him a year ago that he'd be kidnapped by vampires he'd have questioned your sanity and promptly purchased you a one-way ticket to the nut-house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ten feet away but i hit the moon

**Author's Note:**

> Otherwise known as the brainchild of myself and poemwithnorhyme. Many, many thanks to karyu for the beta. Blade-verse in this fic is a strange mixture of movie and comic, and one day the events hinted to in this fic might get written, but as of now this will just have to do. Pure porn, with maybe a hint of a plot. Warnings for rough sex and what could be construed as dubious consent.

It's dark. Rolling blackout. Eames is no stranger to darkness, no stranger to its kiss, its subtle caress. For months she is all that he knew, he and Arthur and Hannibal, prisoner to a vampire with grand designs so terrifying that they'd plagued him for weeks, caught up in a nightmarish web. They'd escaped but it had cost them greatly; changing them so distinctly that some mornings when Eames looks into the bathroom mirror he doesn't recognise the man staring back at him. Arthur is as stoic as ever, though there is an obvious vulnerability hidden beneath the surface and Hannibal... well, Eames doesn't quite know what to say about Hannibal.

Sometimes, when he looks at Hannibal, it's like he's looking at a stranger.

Flicking on the flashlight he huffs out a breath, muted light revealing fleeting shadow and shape before the back-up generator kicks in, revealing a room devoid of personality, lacking the subtle nuances which define him. There is something to be said about having an orderly bedroom, though that is Arthur's influence, and the man lying beside him sleeps heavy, exhausted. In truth it makes it that much easier for Eames to just pack up his bags and leave, though for once in his life he fights the cowardly urge to run. Mombasa may be nice this time of year but it wouldn't be the same without them. Not without Hannibal and Arthur.

Regardless, there is nothing in this room to say that someone sleeps here. Ah, but that's the keyword, isn't it? Sleeps. And that's on the nights when he can, when the nightmares don't creep on him and suffocate him in the dark. Frost had subjected them to too many horrors for too long not to leave a psychological scar, one sunk deep into his body and mind. Oh, he's not selfish enough to think that his lovers didn't suffer the same abuse -- or worse, in the case of Hannibal -- but they're stronger than this. Military-trained, focused and utterly repressed.

Bloody hell.

Vampires. _Vampires_. If you'd told him a year ago that he'd be kidnapped by vampires he'd have questioned your sanity and promptly purchased you a one-way ticket to the nut-house.

Though, as it stands he questions his own sanity.

Padding through into the main living area, bare foot and bare-chested, he isn't shocked to find the less emotionally-repressed of his two lovers still awake. "Come to bed," Eames murmurs, voice sleep-rough and warm as he settles beside Hannibal on the couch, palm resting heavy against a jean clad thigh. Hannibal says nothing, but he doesn't have to. "You're thinking again," and oh, isn't that a clever conclusion? Eames does so pride himself on being astute, even if his brain is clouded with a thick fog from nights of too little sleep.

Hannibal clutches a glass of Grey Goose, hard enough for his knuckles to turn white. His breath smells like death and despair and too much alcohol, Eames concludes, though he’s all too aware that it’s simply a coping mechanism. As Frost’s little pet Hannibal had undergone many a transformation; had in fact embraced his vampiric nature. The mischief in those eyes had given way to a desolate expression, but it had not lingered, could not, before it all turned to ashes in his mouth. Blood and anger and violence had become Hannibal King’s world, and neither Eames nor Arthur could have done anything to save him.

Oh, the things he _did_.

Heh, as if Eames could blame him. He didn’t then, and he doesn’t now, though Hannibal walks around them on eggshells nonetheless.

They’d administered the cure, and it had worked. But Hannibal isn’t the same anymore, and Eames can’t for the life of him work out how to make it right again.

“Hannibal?” He is much too quiet.

And then he moves, and Eames’ heart skips a beat in his chest.

Hannibal is on him, and he moves faster than his eyes can follow, flipping him and shoving his face into the couch, straddling his thighs and pressing close enough to drag his lips to the back of Eames neck, “shhhh-“ and it’s soft and placating and absolutely terrifying as his heart thunders in his chest, as Hannibal nuzzles his face into the crook of his throat and breathes in, breathes deep. Blood roars in Eames ears as Hannibal pins him down, the supine length of him pressed tight to his back. A distinct hardness is hot and heavy against his ass, Hannibal’s hips hitching forward to grind in, rough and breathless and full of promise.

“Sometimes... sometimes you just need to keep your mouth shut,” Hannibal says, and there’s an uncharacteristic hardness to his words that gives Eames pause, makes him think that maybe, just maybe this isn’t a game. “Sometimes you just have to use that lovely little brain of yours, Eames, and not act so fucking _clueless_.”

“I have no idea what you’re on about,” Eames’ chest is tight, too tight and Hannibal snarls in response; a sound that is visceral and utterly primitive. It shakes Eames right down to the very core, and though Hannibal is as human as they come there is something that lingers still; something that gives him the strength to pin him down as if he weighs nothing, that gives him the appetite for blood; blunt teeth suddenly biting hard and deep. Eames sucks in a breath and tries not to scream, bucking in an attempt to throw off the oppressive weight.

Hannibal doesn’t even bat an eyelid. “Oh, you know,” he says, and his words are muffled against Eames’ throat, “You know. I’m not the same, and you know it. We can’t go back to before, Eames, and you know it.” There is such bite to those words, the words of a man that hasn’t lived, only existed. The words of a man that succumbed to his urges and took what he wanted, gorged on blood and sex and enjoyed it. Hannibal smirks against his neck and it is wide and predatory and full of bitter resentment. “There’s just something about spending a year as a blood-sucking rent-boy that changes a man.”

Eames huffs, unimpressed. Regardless his heart bombs against his ribcage, fear and adrenaline rushing through his veins and making him feel so dizzy that he doesn’t quite know what to think; dumbstruck. Fear and arousal wars deep in his gut and he flushes red, overcome. “I’m aware-” he says, and Hannibal is so close he can barely _breathe_ , “I’m aware that you operate under the assumption that you’re nothing more than a monster-”

Hannibal laughs, low and deep. “I’m not just a monster, I’m the fucking maharajah.”

Rough fingers slip beneath the hem of his boxers and Eames bites his lip, toys with the idea of struggling, of fighting back. When Hannibal descends into these fits of self-deprecation and instinct there is no convincing him, nothing more to be done than to allow yourself to become caught in the maelstrom of emotion.

This isn’t the first time they’ve been here, not the first time they’ve done this.

Inhaling a shuddering breath Eames closes his eyes; simply feels. Hannibal all but tears soft, worn cotton from his hips, but it isn’t merely that act which hits low and deep like a punch in the gut; it is Hannibal and the tepid breath tainted with Grey Goose, it is his trembling hands and the control he tries so desperately to sustain, only to crack at the edges and shatter apart. A long, spit slick finger slides right on in with Eames hissing in discomfort but Hannibal only continues, knowing this dance of theirs all too well.

“There’s nothing I can say that will convince you otherwise?” his voice breaks, fingers digging uselessly into slick leather. Hannibal grunts wordlessly and adds another, two fingers scissoring and probing before they find that bundle of nerves within that causes Eames’ breath to hitch and his rapidly hardening cock to throb.

Their dance is thus; Hannibal fucks his fingers in, short stabbing thrusts that makes Eames quake and he just takes it, allows his lover to split his legs wide and bite his shoulder, pain and pleasure and discomfort co-mingling until right is left and left is right. Hannibal says nothing, his eyes dark and pupils blown, bites down deep in a caricature of his base desires, a goddamn _mockery_ even as he removes his fingers and spits into his palm, slicks himself and replaces them with his cock. He slides in, in one long, sweet glide and Eames chokes on air, lost in the ache and the stretch and the burn that is more than he can handle.

Friction and pressure and behind him Hannibal groans, more man than beast and the tightness in Eames’ chest eases because this, _this_ is what Hannibal wants. This is what Hannibal _needs_ and he is all too happy to oblige.

 _“Hannibal,”_ and Eames flounders, searches for a moment before he finds Hannibal’s hand and entwines their fingers, squeezes tight enough for his lover to hiss even as he withdraws and thrusts back in with delicious force.

“Just-” Hannibal shudders; too much friction and tight heat surrounding his cock and he can’t _think_ let alone speak, hiking Eames’ hips higher, “-just shut up,” and pleasure bursts behind his eyelids with shocking intensity. Eames moans, Hannibal angling just right to brush his prostate and the taste of sweat and sex is thick on his tongue.

It can’t last. It never does.

Hannibal fucks Eames and Eames takes it, takes it like he always does until there is nothing more than the sharp slap of flesh against flesh and the way Hannibal can’t help but give in to pure animal instinct and _bite_. Blunt, human teeth sink in to his shoulder, hard enough to bruise but Eames can’t scream, can’t cry out because the very oxygen has been ripped from his lungs and when Hannibal comes he grinds in deep. _“Eames,”_ he sounds wrecked, right down to the core but he wraps his hand around the straining cock regardless and brings Eames over the edge with a helpless grunt.

For a while they don’t even move, don’t even speak. They breathe and they ache and they live, and as Hannibal withdraws Eames hisses, sore and used and uncomfortable. “Fuck, Eames-” Hannibal breathes, thumbing the slick, stretched entrance with something like regret on his face.

Eames huffs, purses his lips and stretches out slow and careful, “I’m not made of spun glass. I can take it.” He aches, and when he manages to sit up there is a painful twinge in his ass that only serves to make him smile, tilting Hannibal’s face up to press a chaste kiss to his lips.

Hannibal is calm, the lines on his face eased. For now the beast within him is sated, lying dormant.

“Come to bed,” Eames murmurs, and he knows now that he’s won the battle, but not the war, “come to bed.”


End file.
